Rooftops and Invitations
by Goddess-Hope
Summary: written for DMHG ficexchange. DH compliant. " We will never be the same person. " It strikes him that no one has ever been good enough for him, not even her, so he continues to behave in such a fashion as coddling himself with cigars and brandy.


**Title:** Rooftops and Invitations.  
**Author/Artist:** GoddessHope, xladyhopex [LJ  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters; copyright goes to JK Rowling. However, plot is mine own as well as the writing itself. " Hamlet ", " Julius Caesar ", and " Romeo and Juliet " belong to playwright William Shakespeare.  
**Warnings:** Be forewarned of weird formatting (_excessive use of words_), language, use of cigarette/smoking products, stereotypes, mention of sex, mention of death, and boy/girl action. Please also adjust your eyes and your thinking cap to present tense, seeing as how I'm currently enraptured with this particular style of writing.  
**Author/Artist notes:** I HATE PROCRASTINATING. Well, actually, I hate real life and football season and homecoming, and all the joyous things a high school student experiences. Fun. Anyways, I hope that my dear recipient of this present likes it (even though they deserve better) and I hope they can find some sort of entertainment in reading this piece. I wanted to do more with this but my muse has recently died and I just… feel like utter _crap_ for not being able to write you something better. A gracious thanks to my beta-readers and dear, long-time friends, grace and sabbers! They have tediously helped me with this and for that, in itself, is a feat considering I'm measurably drawn-out with words. To everyone else: ENJOY (before your eyes bleed)

** WRITTEN FOR THE DMHGFICEXCHANGE 2007.  
- authors have been revealed.**

---- 

" Rooftops and Invitations " 

I. [ _hamlet _

"** The lady doth protest too much, methinks. **"

She whispers the words carefully, letting them sink into her tongue as she tastes each vowel with approval. The intangible feeling of intimacy captures her attention, luring her in as she falls into every word and stanza of the play, losing her wits to Shakespeare. Her eyes, so wide and doe-like, burn brightly as their glazed hues turn her emotions over to her heart. Those pale fingers of ivory silk clutch at her chest, pulling the theatre into her soul as she eagerly consumes the brilliance of literature at its best. Eyes flicker to a close as she inhales sharply, letting her memories flutter by into infinity; a tome of prose and plays exposed before a weary child bent on finishing her task.

A Midsummer's - King Lear - Macbeth - Oh, her darling and cherished _Hamlet_ with all his faults and conspiracies of a man, and her lovely and inspiring _Ophelia_ with her unrequited love and playful insanity.

She remembers when Mother used to recite these lines, always so soothing and mild as she spoke.

She had always assumed that she would grow up to be an Ophelia; so sophisticated and graceful and deeply in love with a dark man. That was her fantasy: to fall in love with a man of elegant passions. But of course, Ron is nothing like Hamlet and she, in turn, is nothing like Ophelia. She blinks rapidly, glistening pearls escaping the corners of her shadowed eyes as she becomes breathless with wonder; King Claudius' admission of murder and the Prince's own disclosure of unsettlement. She becomes nervous, her fingers catching at her throat as she thinks of her own little secrets to profess.

" Hamlet, what hast thou done? "

Yes, what hast thou done, indeed. Her eyes follow the delicate form of the Queen, all porcelain alabaster and silk tresses, moving from the scene of a crime. How many times has she longed to move away from Death and his mocking hands? To cleanse herself of any sin she has so piteously bathed in? Her muscles tense as they spasm, her body remembering what her heart can no longer bear to face: _Dolohov sprawled in the forest, Crabbe perishing in the writhing room, Fred slumping in the corner…_ There is much she wants like to change about what has happened, but she knows she cannot. She chides herself, unimpressed with her lack of respect for Harry; he wishes he could change the past too, and she leaves it at that.

Queen Gertrude gasps in pain and shock, her footing caught and stumbled, her vision of a content-filled world shattered; a bitter smile curves the lips of a watching member of the audience, her head low as she excuses herself from the box. The boy of ginger locks and golden freckles seeks her hand, grasping it firmly as he peers up at her. She smiles kindly and releases herself, gently caressing his rough skin as she slips beyond the velvet curtains that tease her escape. She ignores the assistance of the attendants, following the royal blue carpets that lead to freedom; the frosty chill of evening strokes her tender flesh and she bites her lip in vengeance, feeling so very vulnerable in this open world of direct confrontation. She pushes herself to stroll towards the edge of the balcony, her hands gripping the marble rail as they begin to blush a scarlet red. Too much has changed for her to enjoy a simple play, it seems. She now regrets much of her decisions as of late. Including the one for Draco Malfoy.

_She had first seen him sauntering about the rooftop of Harry's loft, masked in robes of black depth and silver accents. His mutters and utterances piqued her interest as she followed his pattern of motion, circles and circles of thoughts and misgivings. He looked so melancholy under the soft brilliance of moonlight; that child-like expression etched into his features as he continued to liberate himself alone. In that instant, she had realized he was lonely as well and could not tolerate the fortunes of others any longer. She couldn't blame him as she too had sought for tranquility in a world that only wanted to forget and live. There was no time to heal in this era, and she mourned for that loss of peace. _

" The invitation couldn't be more simple. "

Oh, that. She forgets for a second why they are together, her puzzled expression disappearing just as quickly as it appears. His shallow voice moves from the shadows, jumping to her ears hastily as her heart begins to beat rapidly.

"** O! from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! **"

_Hamlet_, with his grasping voice and dark passion stirring that foul and forlorn mood that lingers beneath thick lashes of bistre mahogany. She suddenly heaves, little tremors lighting up her nerves, and she seizes the balcony's rail with a force rivaling that of Viktor's strength. What is this newly discovered, profound attachment to such silly words of rhetoric and honeyed tones? This music to her ears that plays on violins that can not be seen, invisible to all but the man behind her. And then, she wonders, why do they share such a vision that only the truly conflicted can see? She is torn in her opinion of herself, judging all the sins she has committed and all the fears she has ever exploited. Her beloved Ron and dear Harry could never really understand, could they? The former with his fickle hands and boyish understanding, and the latter with his blind heroics and selfish salvations. Only _he_ could understand her- the man of calculated sentiments and cynical aloofness. Hermione wants to bury the part of her that hates him because she understands that truly, only he could relate to her.

" Why were we chosen to lead these lives, Malfoy? Why did Fate give us the roles of becoming monsters? "

A slight pause, hesitation and surprise striking his features; a low, disparaging reply.

" Everyone loses a little something within themselves, Granger. Few happen to lose a little something more than what is expected, though. Someone has to fill that character, because the world cannot function without an equal balance of humanity. We are the unfortunate, Mudblood, because we've chosen to be. "

She is satisfied with his answer because it is all she has ever known.

A philosophy based upon logos and pathos, fueling the hunger that aches so deeply within the caverns of her belly. Execute in terms of logic and passion- but never mix the two. She had learned this many years before, a faded Troll existing in only her memories. Does he realize that she is seeking comfort in him? In this rather wicked relationship they have barely begun, she seems to accept the half of her that is already accustomed to his character. She is awkwardly entrusting her future in the debauched morals of a corrupt man and never before has she felt so relieved.

" Why are we alive, then? "

" We wanted to live. " _Because we are the ones who are not forgiven. _

She groans and touches her prickling skin, feeling her face blister in guilt.

" There was a moment, a split second and I had almost reached Heaven. Do you think … ? "

" You came back because you had no other choice. "

Yes, that is why she came back. To appease the expected family members that would weep for other deaths and other tragedies, too weak in their own fronts to move on. Hermione has always been the stronger individual, of both worlds, and sometimes she wishes that she didn't have to accept such responsibilities. There was a moment where she could have passed into the lands of undying angels, safely enclosed in the arms of God. Where white, gossamer wings of freedom could remove her from mortal life and protect her from all the horrors she would have to encounter. A child's fantasy- much like Ophelia's. What she would give to be a child again, idly delighting in the fancies of a princess!

Now, she can only feel the glow-fly heat of virtue pass her by in reminiscent dreams, before reality shakes her awake, leaving her bare with only the warmth of Ron's body and the emptiness of chastity.

" Hermione? "

She hears Ron's voice call out to her, an anxious manner hidden within his voice.

" You're not a little girl anymore, Granger. We all have to grow up some day. "

(_She brought Rose to the production of the same play, ten years later._)

II. [ _Julius Caesar_

" **… as he was valiant, I honor him: but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. **"

She clutches her wrap, drawing it closer to her body as she feels an eerie chill tingle her spine. The edge of a dagger penetrates her heart as she draws paused breaths, letting the speeches kindle something she had lost long ago.

_Brutus'_ words represent a fraction of what her life has become: her honor and ethics and mere _love_ challenged by the common good, the noble redemption. The tart and resentful feeling of being swindled by Hell's games brings little activity to her features but the hardening effect of her glossy eyes. Everything has always been and always will be, for the greater cause. Being cheated out of a chance at serenity really affects an individual, it does. She can contest to this because she feels that nothing, nothing at all, has changed her world other than the protection of others. What would it be like if she were a Deatheater? So utterly damned and shunned from the world? She at least has the luxury to assume good favor with the general population, her heroism and aptitude quite admirable in many ways.

It kills her.

She listens to the work of Shakespeare like it is a law, the edicts and examples of morals taught without question. Betray a friend and you shall pay the price ; Let fools blind you and you shall pay the price ; Do not heed arrogance lest you shall pay the price. She thinks that Harry could not have succeeded without the support of her and Ron, his building blocks to a much needed **future**. He has never betrayed anyone, listening to his heart and listening to the warnings of his friends. And somehow, through all of this- all that has happened, he never once has shown weakness. Only steadfast courage instead of fear. She silently laughs at this fact because she has never been as strong, only using her shrewdness to cover her instability. Without her boys she is nothing. And without her, they are nothing. It _was_ a balance of unison until now. She no longer needs for her boys to be there for her or to hold her up; independence, faith in her for being the clever witch that she is, that is all that is requested. They work hard to protect each other from the world's evils because it is the only childhood left to encourage.

Her gaze sweeps from the apron to Draco's booth, catching his stunning eyes of cobalt hues and sheltered depths, his private life unaided by the advice of society. In this single moment, she determines that you can define his ways and characteristics just by peering into the windows of his soul. He is, by no means, a naïve or a virtuous man, preferring all the smokes and whores and vodkas of the world to a chance at happiness and _family_. But he is experienced and knows all the maps to Hell, unbounded and free to roam the seas without any blame. And he has taken her with him, countless times with him- to those steaming fields that burn alongside their ecstatic glances of glazed eyes and hardened bodies melting together in sweat and fervor. All without the knowledge of Ron. Or Harry.

She feels guilty, a heavy burden locking into her shoulders as what she only wants is acceptance.

A simple glance to the sides of her seat proves that she is indeed trapped within her own harmony, the trio lacking any innocence in which they should have possessed. A confession lingers on her lips and she is afraid that it threatens to become an interlude in her peaceful life.

[ - - - 

He watches her from across the theatre, her booth opposite his as she sits squarely between Potter and Weasley. Ever since their first meeting, and occasional spats, he wonders why she has chosen to align herself in circles that can not begin to value her. She is cautious of her actions, preferring to work behind the lines as she dares to upset the timeline of history. Much like a serpent that lingers in the shades of grass. A smirk curls into his features as he twirls his wand, rubbing his fingers against the smooth wood with eagerness. His chance to hex her and be done with her silly endeavors could be tonight, all it needs is his will to perform if chanced with the mood. No more invitations, no more plays, no more _sin_. The months have not been kind to him and this on-going issue that concerns them is escalating by the minute.

He hates her because she is using him. He hates himself because she is making him feel. God, he could loathe the both of them for centuries just because what they are doing is so utterly _wrong_. Why should he care?

Pocketing his wand, his eyes briefly move over to the stage: Antony is delivering his own speech, talking with exposed tones as he makes the crowd believe his arguments. A man of fine words and even finer manipulations, grasping the hearts of his listeners in the palm of his hands. The Roman is quite a show, collecting audible gasps and murmurs from the real-audience as he subtly presses for revenge. He is charming and bold and ever-so restrained, very cunning indeed.

He likes to think that he resembles somewhat like this man, sly all the while as he tricks her into his bed of cold silk sheets and emerald stains. (In reality, it is her who has enticed him into her bed.) He feels proud of himself as he congratulates himself on a victory well played, intending to end everything tonight. Taking one last wistful glance at Antony, he stands and moves from the booth, stopping only to look at her and signal a meet.

She is so quiet and tiny and so helpless in this form of her intelligence; he almost doubts she is the same girl she was several years before.

[ - - - 

He exhales loudly, letting his senses fire up again with the release of the nicotine; rubbing the butt of his cigarette lightly, he shifts his position to get a better look her, whose solemn expression holds no recognition of his words. However, she turns to give him a hard look when he sneers harshly at her expected motions. It has taken him none but several years to learn her; his acceptance of her habitual gestures doesn't seem to bother her, not yet. How can one so completely different from her understand her so well?

" Where? "

" My flat. "

" Now? "

A shrug, calm and agreeable.

" Wait here. "

It is easily done as he crushes the smoke beneath his foot, straightening his jacket as he loosens his tie. He can say no, still, and leave her to find another outlet of obsession. But this chance has shown him that life can never be guaranteed and he is half-curious at to the expectations of their romance. Romance. No, he shakes his head as he shuffles his feet , romance is not their circumstance. Nor is it love-making. It is sex, it is simple companionship- nothing more, nothing less. He curtly looks at her when she returns, extending his hand as she accepts his invitation. Feeling her hand curl into his own, he wants to ask why this hasn't already occurred. It seemed _right_, after all.

" Why are you doing this to Weasley? Is that fickle thing called love beyond your reach? "

" No. Its… It's my own selfish intentions, my own desires that crave carnal pleasure and acceptance. The greater good is at work here. Malfoy, I do not need explain to you the workings of my hea- "

" Don't finish that sentence, Granger. "

" You understand me. "

" We will never be the same person. "

(_He insisted Scorpius explain to him the complexities of mortal identity, fifteen years later._)

III. [ _romeo and juliet _

" **What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any another name would smell as sweet. **"

Romeo catches the hand of his fair Juliet, pulling it close to his heart as he is wooed by her words of faith. The fair-haired lad falls under the spell of his young love, kneeling before her heavenly body of sweet virtue. _He_ mildly watches the play take place, snorting mutely at the fool-stricken lines of adoration. This is not his favorite selection to watch but, _she_, is avidly watching the production and seems to enjoy it, which is the particular reason he is in attendance. Memories of recent weeks weigh heavily in his soul as he tries hard to suppress everything; Desire has never been his favorite mistress and he suffers for lack of resistance.

He waits patiently, faintly aware that his date is swooning hopelessly and gripping his arm with razor-edge nails. Isabelle's envious tresses of midnight black curl above her olive shadowed breast, her beating heart out of rhythm with his own. Slightly grimacing, he releases himself from her grasp and leaves the box, sighing quietly whilst loosening his tie. She's attractive and beautiful, indulging in every sense of the word. He likes to think that she is the perfect candidate for his open position of a partner, her appearance and background appealing enough; she doesn't compare to Hermione. He curses his thoughts and shoves his hands into his pockets, whistling softly as he follows the royal blue carpet to liberation. He wants one that is intelligent and witty, dryly humored as well as tolerant of his actions; a pretty wife with a dull interior serves no purpose for him, so he decides to never call upon Isabelle again. The humid night caresses his skin and he removes his jacket, draping it across the edge of the balcony. He produces a cigarette, bringing it to his lips as he lights it once more, inhaling the familiar scent of addiction.

It strikes him that no one has ever been good enough for him, not even _her_, so he continues to behave in such a fashion of coddling himself with cigars and brandy.

However, he reflects, _she_ has come closer than anyone else has.

He supposes its because she is a delegate of propriety and sense, a woman capable of enjoying the life of older times with the ability to adapt to the modern era. She is by no means beautiful or exquisite or even remotely _pretty_, but she has a good complexion and features sporting eyes of a delicate nature. Her thick mane of dark brown curls isn't as luminous as Isabelle's, but rather is soft and natural. She is not heavily endowed with the delicious curves of man's delight, nor is she graced with a set of rounded breasts; her slender limbs and willowy frame is easy enough to press into and that is more than he has ever been tempted by. It is a shame that he is bound to hate her though, for all her attributes and qualities. She would have made a better partner than anyone else he could ever expect from.

The navy sky produces little stars of vivid radiance, quite striking in a night of dark fear. He stares at the moon and her casted glows of illuminating faith. He isn't one for scenery or breath-taking views; however, he appreciates the simplicity of this quiet night and all it offers to him. Something out of the ordinary and unusual in his bustling life of a town-man. He likes it.

Does she like it?

" It's a little stifling in there, wouldn't you say? "

He nods slightly, his lips welcoming the addiction once again- to distract himself from answering her question. Shakespeare isn't his pot of tea but the culture that generates from it is more than stimulating. He finds that all cliché stories about love and betrayal often spring from the playwright's original work, flattery at its sincere best. However, he does know that _she_ is lively on feather-light words and lyrical plots; her bright face is glowing with hope as she becomes enveloped in the world called _drama_. Observation and time and anticipation has made him a keen pupil of the life of Hermione Granger. He almost wants to blame himself for becoming so attached to her because of this. Study your subject but do not let them study you; rule one. He seems to have forgotten that principle and its purpose; the last year has seen to that. Tapping the cylinder of his cigarette, he flinches as she comes to stand beside him, peering over the ledge as intensely as he had a few moments before.

As a little boy, he had learned to control his curiosity. As a man, he has learned to encourage it.

" Will there be an end to our illicit affair, Granger? "

" Such a companionship is considered an affair only when one is currently dating, engaged, or married to a separate individual. "

" Don't become too attached, dear."

He scoffs softly, mouthing a curse to himself as he tosses his craving away. One hand slumps to support his head as he cocks his face to face his dear danger. She will be the death of him, he fears, and he is right. A devious nature is a part of his intellect and he is nearly satisfied with being through with using her. However, as he glimpses into her searching eyes, he knows that his obsession will never be satisfied. Her heart-shaped face is flushing with the warmth of the night, rosy cheeks bringing shy eyes of glittering lengths. She means more to him than anyone else and he does not want to admit that. He is too weak to be fond of her and tell her this; cowardice is his shame as he does what he only knows how to do. He kisses her, and for the first time, he doesn't hate her.

"** Did my heart love 'till now? Forswear it sight. For I never saw true beauty 'till this night. **"

They spend long, relaxed moments to expand their passions, focusing on the other as they gently caress each other's faces, holding close as they know the time to part has come. He sways for her to surrender to his will, searching deeper into her lips as he lets his pleasure build up. He can feel her bliss too: through the way her hips unconsciously press against his pelvis, the way her eyelids flutter, her smooth skin slightly dewed. This unexpected, caring ailment drowns them both has no need to be shattered as they move closer, soon gripping robes and material and any limb in sight.

" Draco? Draco? " Isabelle, her husky voice and pitched volume violating this scene.

He moans as she breaks away, his flustered expression masked before he draws her even closer to him. She resists before relenting, letting him take her to the meadows of veiled intimacies that they had stumbled through so many times before. She bites his lip and lets go, her fingers rubbing her own swollen lips as she brushes beyond him and leaves. He shakes, struggling to control his breathing as he rakes a hand through his muddled tresses. This is it, this is goodbye. Somehow it is established and he cannot find any reason to prolong its inevitable delay any longer. A hand slips into his pocket as he produces a cigar of fine quality, lighting it properly before coaxing it into his mouth. He doesn't lament the loss of her warmth or her comfort any longer because he has grown ashamed of his dependency of her. They have matured far greatly than anyone can realize, their nights in each other's arms now dead and cold. He thinks much of the world and society, what has happened and what will happen; he knows that he cannot ask for much more in life now, his part in saving the world complete. One thing is for certain: this year they have spent basking in open-roofed balconies and inaudible invitations will not be regretted. For a moment, he could have believed that they are meant to be together and that could have lived happily. He pauses before inhaling once more, pondering on the possibilities of a life with his mud blood.

_Children, chocolate ringlets and blonde curls bouncing about, running around the Manor with glee-filled eyes and stricken smiles of delightful depths. Tiny little voices to call out for Mama and Papa as they play their games of summer afternoons and dusky evenings. Hands held as two people simply enjoy the life of simplicity. You, me, us. Suddenly the world is ideal and he is content and there is nothing more in the world that he wants to ask for. _

" Darling, why are you out here? It's too hot. "

And like a sweet dream with lace-woven clouds and blinding light, it has ended.

(_They briefly meet twenty years thereafter, murmuring their greetings as they take opposite booths._)

[ 

__

" I heard you had a child, congratulations. "

" Rose. "

"…"

" Scorpius is doing well? "

" Yes."

Pause. Rush of words.

" Draco.. Do you think, do you think that we - ? "

" In a different time, perhaps. In a different world, yes. "

" Not in this one, though. "

" … No. "

" Well, goodbye I suppose. "

" Until next time, then. "\/p> 


End file.
